The last patient file clicks shut with a hollow finality. My office is too quiet. The clock on the wall reads 4:58 PM. Adrian Vale’s appointment slot was forty-three minutes ago.
He didn’t come.
I’d prepared for him. I’d rehearsed the clinical detachment, the reinforced boundaries, the script about therapeutic progress and appropriate conduct. I’d positioned my chair just so. I’d even worn different shoes—flat, sensible leather loafers that offered no weapon, no temptation. The stilettos are locked in my bottom drawer, a guilty secret.
His absence is louder than his presence ever was. It feels like a verdict. Or a challenge left hanging in the sterile air. I stare at the empty chair where he confessed, where he knelt, where he… I stop the thought. I methodically straighten the already-s
